Derailed

TWENTY-EIGHT

For two weeks or so, I believed.

Believed that possibly the worst was over. That, okay, I’d been tested, tested severely — a modern-day Job, even — but that it was entirely possible things were going to work out in the end.

Yes, it was hard to look Anna in the face these days, very hard. Knowing that the money I’d painstakingly accumulated for her was, for all intents and purposes, gone. That my carefully constructed bulwark against her insidious and encroaching enemy was virtually depleted.

It was hard, too, looking at Deanna—who trusted me, maybe the very last thing in life she did trust — knowing what I’d done with that trust.

Hardest of all, of course, was thinking about the people I couldn’t look at. Lucinda, for instance—whom I’d failed not once, but twice. And Winston. Whom I’d failed right into the grave. Their pictures clamored for my attention, like needy children demanding to be seen. Look at me . . . look. I tried not to, I tried tucking Winston away in places where I couldn’t find him. But I always did. When I picked up an ordinary piece of office mail, or read an article about the winter baseball meetings — he’d say hello. I’d see him lying there the way I’d left him. I’d close my eyes, but the pictures wouldn’t go away. Like the flash of a camera that remains seared on your eyelids.

Still, I was hopeful.

Hoping for two things, really. That Vasquez had actually meant what he said, that he realized the well was good and dry now and he wouldn’t be coming back. That he had relocated.

And I was hoping that I could rebuild Anna’s Fund. That through diligent and constant cheating, through the auspices of the T&D Music House, I could build it back to where it was before. That I could do this before I might actually need it. Before anyone noticed it, either.

For two weeks, then, this is what I clung to.

Then there was a man waiting for me in reception. That’s what Darlene said.

“What man?” I asked her.

“He’s a detective,” Darlene said.

I thought of Dick Tracy. At first I did — remembering the Sunday comics I used to press into Play-Doh, then stretch into funhouse mirror versions of their former selves.

“A detective?” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Tell him I’m not here,” I said.

Darlene asked me if I was sure.

“Yes, Darlene. I’m sure.” Letting just a touch of annoyance into my voice — because annoyance covered up what I was actually feeling, which was, okay, fear.

“Fine.”

And the detective left. After which Darlene informed me that it was a police detective who’d been waiting for me.

The next day he was back.

This time he was sitting there in full view as I exited the elevator. I wasn’t actually aware he was the police detective until he got up and introduced himself as such.

“Mr. Schine?” he said.

And I immediately noticed that if he was a rep, he was devoid of reels, and if he was someone seeking employment, he was minus a portfolio.

“I’m Detective Palumbo,” he said, just like in the movies and TV. That New York accent, the kind that always seems somehow phony in the darkness of a movie theater.

Purpetration . . . dufendunt . . . awficcer.

That’s how Detective Palumbo sounded — only no matinee looks here. A genuine double chin and a stomach that never met the Ab Roller +. Of course, he carried a real badge.

“Yes?” I said. A dutiful citizen just trying to be helpful to an officer of the law.

“Could I have a word with you?”

Of course. No problem. Anything I can do, Officer.

We walked past Darlene, who gave me a look that seemed somewhat reproachful. I asked you if you really wanted me to tell the detective you weren’t there, didn’t I?

We walked in, I shut the door behind us, we both sat down. And all that time, I was having a disturbing conversation with myself. Asking myself myriad questions that I couldn’t answer. For instance, what was the detective here for? Had Lucinda reconsidered and gone to the police herself?

“Do you know Winston Boyko?”

No. Detective Palumbo was here about someone else. He was here about Winston.

“What?” I said.

“Do you know Winston Boyko?”

Okay. What were my options here? No, I don’t wasn’t one of them. After all, there were a number of people who could swear just the opposite — Darlene, Tim Ward, and half the sixth floor.

“Yes.”

Detective Palumbo was scribbling something in his little notebook that he’d produced almost magically out of his coat, scribbling away and seemingly waiting for me to embellish a little.

(A detective comes to see you and asks you if you know this obscure mailroom employee and you say . . . what is it? Yes. That’s it. No curiosity about why?)

“Why do you want to know, Detective?”

“He’s missing,” Detective Palumbo said.

A lot better than He's been found dead. I could cry all I wanted about this unexpected interrogation, but a Winston missing was better than a Winston found.

“Really?” I said.

Detective Palumbo had a red mark on the bridge of his nose. Contacts? A slight nick on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving? I checked out his face as if it might hold a few answers for me. For instance, what he thought I knew.

“For over two weeks,” Palumbo said.

“Hmmm . . .” I was down to monosyllabic responses now, being as my brain was off somewhere else furiously constructing alibis.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Detective Palumbo asked.

Good question. Maybe even a trick question, like who was the last left-handed batter to win the American League MVP award? Everyone says Yastrzemski, everyone, but it’s a trick — it’s really Vida Blue, left-handed wunderkind pitcher for the Oakland As. The kind of question Winston would have loved, too.

When did you last see him?

“Gee, I don’t know,” I finally said. “A few weeks ago, I think.”

“Uh-huh,” Palumbo said, still scribbling. “What exactly was your relationship, Mr. Schine?”

What did that mean? Wasn't relationship the kind of word you used for people who had one? Lucinda and me, for instance. If Palumbo was asking me what kind of relationship Lucinda and I had, I would’ve said brief. I would’ve said sex and violence, and you can forget the sex.

“He works here,” I said. “He delivers my mail.”

“Yeah,” Palumbo said. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.” Palumbo was staring at the picture of my family.

“So I guess you’re interviewing. . .everyone?” I asked, hoped.

“Everyone?”

“You know, everyone who works here?”

“No,” Palumbo said, “not everyone.”

I could’ve asked him, Why me, then? I could’ve asked him that, but I was afraid of the answer I might get back, so I didn’t. Even though I was wondering if Palumbo was expecting me to ask him that.

“So . . . is there anything else I can — ” I began, but was interrupted.

“Whenwas that again? The last time you saw him?” Palumbo asked, pencil poised and waiting — and I was reminded of an image from one of those British costume dramas that continuously turn up on Bravo: the Crown’s executioner holding the ax above his head, only awaiting the signal to strike.

“I don’t remember, exactly,” I said. “Two weeks ago, I guess.”

I guess. Couldn't hold someone to a guess, could you? Couldn’t drag them downtown and haul them before the court on a wrong guess.

“Two weeks ago? When he delivered your mail?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever get together with Mr. Boyko, you know, socially?”

Yes, once in a bar. But it was business.

“No.”

“Did Mr. Boyko ever talk to you about himself?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did Mr. Boyko ever talk about himself? To you?”

“No, not really. About mail . . . you know.”

“Mail?”

“Deliveries. Where I wanted something sent. Things like that.”

“Uh-huh. That’s it?”

“Pretty much. Yes.”

“Well, what else?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said pretty much. What else did he talk to you about?”

“Sports. We talked about sports.”

“Mr. Boyko is a sports fan, then?”

“I guess. Kind of. We’re both Yankee fans,” trying hard to keep in the present tense when I was talking about Winston — not so easy, when I could picture him lying stiffly at the foot of the mound of garbage.

“That’s all, then. You talked about mail and sometimes about the Yankees?”

“Yes. As far as I can remember.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know how Winston came into ten thousand dollars, Mr. Shine?”

“What?”You heard him.

“Mr. Boyko had ten thousand dollars in his apartment. I was wondering if you had any idea how he got it.”

“No. Of course not. How would I . . . ?” I was wondering something: if the police were allowed to check with David Lerner Brokerage and see how much stock I’d sold. It wouldn’t look good, would it? It would look, okay, suspicious. But then, why would they suspect me of giving ten thousand dollars to Winston? I was panicking for no good reason.

“There were some computers stolen from your agency. One from this floor.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did you ever see Mr. Boyko up here when he wasn’t supposed to be?”

Computers. Palumbo was asking me about computers. Of course. Winston the thief. Winston the ex-con. He was talking to me because he suspected Winston had gotten that money from stealing some computers. He needed witnesses. Winston had stolen some computers and he’d made some money and taken off.

“Now that you mention it, I did see him up here one night when I was working late.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Just around, you know. In the hall here.”

“Was there any reason for him to be up on this floor after work?”

“Not that I can think of. I thought it was kind of strange at the time.” I was killing him again, I thought. First when he was alive and now when he wasn’t.

“Did you challenge him about that? Ask him what he was doing there?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t. He was down the hall — I was in my office. I really didn’t know if he was supposed to be here or not.”

“All right, Mr. Schine.” Palumbo shut his notebook and placed it back into his hip pocket. “I think that’s all I have for you today. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, even as I wondered about that word. Today.

“I hope you find him.”

“So do I. You know, Mr. Boyko was pretty good about seeing his parole officer. He hadn’t missed a meeting. Not one. You did know he’d been in prison, right?”

“I think I may have heard something about that. Yeah, sure. Is that who told you he was missing? His parole officer?”

“No,” Palumbo said. Then he looked straight into my eyes, the way lovers do when they want you to acknowledge the sincerity of their feelings.

“Mr. Boyko and I had a kind of working relationship,” he said. “Understand?”

No, I didn’t understand.

As I walked Detective Palumbo out into the hall, wondering if the detective was going to go interview someone else—he didn’t. Still not understanding that statement: Mr. Boyko and I had a kind of working relationship.

And what kind of relationship was that?

It was only when I replayed the interview later in the day, wondering if I’d been okay with my answers, meticulously going over each Q&A to see if I’d slipped up, given the detective any cause, no matter how minute, to distrust me, that it occurred to me what kind of relationship any ex-con can have with any police detective.

What were the terms?

Because something else was bothering me. Something that didn’t make sense. It was this. People are reported missing all the time—isn’t that the usual quote you hear from bored and jaded police detectives on the evening news? The distraught parent complaining about police inaction, how their teenage daughter or son was missing for God knows how long, and the parents knew something was wrong, of course, they knew, but still the police did nothing much but take a report. Because people disappear all the time. That’s what the bored detectives say. And if they looked for every kid who didn’t come home, they’d have no time left to go after the serious criminals.

And these are kids they’re talking about — kids that they don’t exactly jump into action after. And Winston was not a kid. He was a grown man — and by the usual social standards, not a very important one. In fact, on the scale of important people, of people the police need immediately to start looking for, he’d probably be next to last, just above black transvestite heroin addicts, maybe.

Yet just two weeks after this ex-con doesn’t show up for work, a police detective is there looking for him.

What were the terms?

So I replayed the detective’s words again. Mr. Boyko and I had a kind of working relationship, understand?

And yes, I was beginning to understand now.

What were the terms?

I’d seen all the movies, I’d watched the TV shows, I’d read the papers. Police detectives were allowed to lean on ex-cons for information. Ex-cons were inclined to give it to them so as not to be leaned on. So that maybe they’d look the other way when they were trying to supplement their income with, say, a little computer theft.

What were the terms?

I know the terms, Winston.

Why don’t you state them for me so there’s no confusion.

That night in Winston’s car by the number seven train.

Why don’t you state them for me.

And why was that? Why did Winston need me to state them for him, need to hear me say the words out loud? Because in the end, it’s the words that’ll set you free. You need to give them the words if they’re ever going to believe you.

State them for me.

Policemen and ex-cons with only one kind of working relationship, really, and this is the way it works. This way. They ask and you tell. You whisper. You snitch.

State them.

If you don’t have the words, if you don’t have them sitting there on some tape somewhere, how will they ever believe you? A company big shot, a bridge and tunneler, an honest to God white-collar commuter, and he wants you to what? Say again, Winston. . . .

State them.

No, not everyone, Palumbo said.

Just you.